


100 Ways to Smell of Peaches

by Yung_Mofftiss (OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink)



Series: 100 Ways to Smell of Peach [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/Yung_Mofftiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This chapter is for Jenncho, as a ‘Help Haiti’ Charity Fic. Originally posted here: http://lo-sequence.dreamwidth.org/11000.html</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. 028. “Children”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenncho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenncho/gifts).



> This chapter is for Jenncho, as a ‘Help Haiti’ Charity Fic. Originally posted here: http://lo-sequence.dreamwidth.org/11000.html

“I’ve always wanted kids,” Carlton comments as they sit together on stakeout.

It’s been four years as partners and one year as  _partners_.

“Me, too,” Juliet admits, fighting back a yawn as she peers through binoculars at the window she’s supposed to be watching. “A boy and a girl.”

She can hear him shift slightly in the driver’s seat. “Two boys. I would take them fishing.”

“And to the gun range,” she says with amusement.

“They’d be named…” he pauses for a moment. “Well, one of them ought to be Carlton Jr.”

She glances over at him. “Naturally.”

“Hmmm. Maybe Henry…” he ponders.

Juliet makes a notation in her stakeout logbook. “I would name my son Leonard, after Lennie Briscoe.”

He takes a sip of coffee that’s long been cold. “Carlton Jr and Leonard. Respectable names.”

“And if you ended up with a daughter?” she asks.

“What would you name yours?”

She thinks for a moment. “Charlotte.”

“That’s a good name. Rebecca,” he offers.

Juliet thinks about being hit in the face with a softball during PE. “Nah, I knew a girl in middle school named Rebecca. She was pretty mean.”

“Okay, so no ‘Rebecca’ then. How about Danielle?” he suggests.

“Danielle Lassiter. Not bad,” she sounds out.

“Juliet Lassiter isn’t bad either,” he says quickly.

She starts to write down that the suspect had turned the lights off at exactly 1:19am when she realises exactly what he’s said. “Oh. What?”

“I was thinking about you and me.” She turns him and she can see he has a slight smile on his lips. “I didn’t mean to ask the question like this—it just slipped out, I promise. I was saving it for dinner on Saturday.” She watches him sigh heavily and he gives an apologetic shrug. “The ring is in my locker.”

“Is it pretty?” she asks,

He grimaces. “I don’t know!”

She raises an eyebrow and gives him a Look and he sighs once more. “It’s antique. I wanted to get you a diamond, but I know that you don’t believe in buying them because of the wars down in Africa…I figured it was loophole.”

“I think it is. It’s like recycling,” she says breathlessly, her mind running wild with what it might look like. “How do you it’s the right size?”

Now it’s his turn to give her a Look. “O’Hara, I’m a detective.”

“You and me?” she squeaks.

“We make good partners,” he says in a very sure tone. “We’d make a good husband and wife, and good parents.”

Juliet lifts the binoculars to her eyes once more, looking at their suspect’s window. “When I tell my parents that you proposed to me, I’m not going to tell them that it was while I was sitting on stakeout with a full bladder at one in the morning.”


	2. 056. “Breakfast”

“Ow.”

O’Hara sits down heavily across from him at the booth. Her hair is a little matted, just starting to look oily at the roots and her usually flawless makeup is smudged with mascara runs. On her face she has bruises, dirt, and a slight dribble of dried blood out of her left nostril. Her watch face is cracked and there’s a nasty tear in the shoulder of her blazer.

Frankly he doesn’t look any better.

They’d just emerged from a Mexican standoff after three days being held hostage in a dingy warehouse. Vicks, the rest of the SBPD, and of course Spencer and Guster had come to rescue them and right now are cleaning up the situation while he and O’Hara got the hell out of there. The second they’d got into a patrol cruiser (their car is sitting at the bottom of a reservoir) O’Hara had growled out,

_“I want breakfast.”_

It was coke and fake Louis Vouttoin handbags that started the whole mess, breaking up a crime ring of fraud and drugs that got them into so much trouble. They probably ought be at the station making their report but Carlton could give a crap. They’re hungry, tired, and his knees feel weird from the way he’d been sitting for almost three days straight.

The waitress sees his badge and seems to take this as a sign not to ask them to leave on account of their scruffy appearance, instead pulling out her ticket book and a pen.

O’Hara looks at the woman tiredly. “Pancakes. Blueberry syrup. As much bacon as it will take to fill a plate. And fresh fruit. And orange juice.”

The waitress nods and looks at him.

“What’s the greasiest thing you have on the menu?” he asks.

“Uh, we don’t have anything grea—“ Carlton gives her a stern look and she sighs. “The Prairie Dog Pancakes.”

“I want those.” He rubs his temples and the empty mug to his right. “And a whole pot of coffee.”

The waitress frowns. “I don’t know—“

“Lady, this is our first meal in three days! Just bring us our food!” O’Hara snaps and proceeds to lay her head down on the table as the waitress walks away. There is silence between them (he’s staring at the hair tie still holding her golden locks back in a ponytail) and she finally speaks into the tabletop. “I’m glad you had my back, Carlton.”

He slouches in his seat slightly. “Someone has to.”

“I’m sorry I got us caught,” she adds and he nods.

“Anyone could have made that mistake.”

At this she looks up. “Really?”

“You didn’t get us killed,” he points out.

“Very true.”

Three days of sitting handcuffed together that ten percent of the time was spent listening to their ransom being negotiated and the other ninety by themselves. In retrospect, it had been a great way to do some bonding as partners—he was secretly hoping that he could convince Vick into letting this whole ordeal count towards those stupid seminars he has to attend every year about ‘being a good partner’.

They’d talked about little things, such as her love of oranges and why she liked her coffee the way she did. They talked about how he picked neckties and why he thought laundry bluing was possibly the best thing ever. She’d driven him crazy from singing Lady Gaga over and over, getting it stuck in his head. 

And when she’d been scared, they’d been put in the perfect positions to hold hands without having to see one another’s face.

“We were pretty awesome,” she admits a large smile gracing her face.

_He can see the jefe with a gun to her temple, her wide eyes not blinking but her mouth silently saying ‘aim for his heart’. He has no idea what she’s thinking because he certainly isn’t going to shoot through his partner--she stomps down on his toes and in the brief second the jefe is shouting out, O’Hara has ducked down and Carlton takes the shot._

He smiles back. “We really were.”

They’re both a mess and suddenly he realises he smells halfway between an autoshop and a dumpster. Thankfully there is enough distance created by the table that he can’t smell her.

He means to say: “We could both use showers.”

What he actually says: “You and I should shower.”

“Oh my gosh!” she gasps, leaning over her plate. “I was just thinking the same thing! I don’t know about your place, but my shower has this showerhead that’s supposed to be like when rain falls. It’s pretty cool.”

He wants to tell her that isn’t what he meant at ALL, but he finds himself stumbling over words. Damnit—he’s not fifteen. However it seems she’s taken his pause as something more.

Her fork traces patterns in her syrup. “Oh, well, I mean, if you’d rather we go to your apartment—“

“Yours is fine,” he blurts out.

“M’kay. But just a shower though. I really want to get some rest,” she says, her hand reaching out to touch his momentarily. “I’m so glad I just put fresh sheets on the bed. Not that I was expecting company, but it’ll be nice to get into a fresh, clean bed, right?”

He doesn’t answer as the waitress has returned with their food. As he begins cutting his Prairie Dog Pancakes which is a stack of pancakes with sausage mixed into the batter with an egg over easy in the center, O’Hara begins to wrap the bacon and fruit into her pancakes, pouring out the entirety of the blueberry syrup to dip her breakfast in. Together they are silent as they scarf down their food.

Oh the safety of an IHOP diner. No guns, no drama, no Spencer and Guster. Just two detectives who’ve lived to fight another day and eat pancakes.

He wipes the smudge of blueberry syrup off her cheek and for the slightest second he can see her lean into his touch, her eyes drifting to look down at his wrist…

He knows that whatever happens after they leave here they’ll be able to blame on their lack of respectable sleep, on the calming effects of a hot shower, of almost dying. He just wants to kiss her, to tell her that he still thinks it was irritating that she sang ‘Poker Face’ over and over, that she’d made a convincing argument for trying coffee the way she like it, that he’d only just now realised how happy he was that she’d trusted him enough to take the shot that saved them.

But he right now he’s just fine linking his fingers with hers across the table as they scarf down their breakfasts.


End file.
